Vignettes
by Noacat
Summary: These stories could best be described as drabbles or ficlets. Every story is different. They run the gamut from comedy to tragedgy. From Final Fantasy 7 to 10. So enjoy a short ficlet while you wait. Chapter 1rated for violence and
1. The Cycle of Abuse FF7

Before you begin. I want to welcome you. This is the rather dramatic and disturbing start to a series of stories I've had in mind for a long time. They fall into two categories. Some are those stories that were meant to be scenes in one of my other fics but for one reason or the other just didn't fit. Others are completely original ideas that I liked as a one shot, mostly things that amused or intrigued me. Little plot bunnies escaping from questions I had about game events or just the random misfiring of my mind. The following ficlets or drabbles will run the gamut. From comedy to tradegy and back again. I start out with this one, because...well, if you're gonna start. Do it with a bang! I'm not gonna limit myself to one game either. You'll get a mixed bag of FF7, 8 and 10 fics. Mostly, I see these as a way to exercise my mind when taking a break from my longer works. So enjoy! On with the show!! But before that! THE WARNINGS!

**WARNING!** This chapter is rated for violence and language. It deals with the topic of child abuse. Being such a touchy subject, if you are at all sensitive to violence or a former victim of child abuse yourself. Please, go read something else. Or wait for the next chapter. I also use the derogatory word for a homosexual in this fic. It is not meant to offend, nor do I use it in my own life. However, it was used as an illustration of a particular mindset for a character. Once again, if the use of that word offends. Please, PLEASE refrain from reading this fic.

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**The Cycle of Abuse**

**Final Fantasy VII**

**Drama/Angst**

_C-R-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!_

A strange, sickly green smile came over his face as his fist connected with the boy's head. How strange and hollow it sounded, like there was nothing inside it at all. Surprisingly, it actually had hurt to hit him. The sensation in his knuckles was painful though he guessed it had hurt the one he'd hit more. His hand still burned painfully but it had been worth it for the oddly satisfying cracked cocoanut sound when his fist had slammed openly against the child's head.

The man paused to regard his work, looming over the frail figure of the child. The boy was curled into a tiny, pale ball on the floor, shaking and crying as he held his head with his chubby little hands. Underneath one trembling hand a large red welt appeared, it would disappear just as suddenly. But the evidence was there all the same. The man who stood over him gazed down dispassionately, as if he'd witnessed such a scene a hundred times before in some other vicious lifetime. Pain. It had been several months since he'd felt anything. In the blur of experimentation, in the rush to improve himself and the boy, he almost forgot that he was still human. The boy whimpered and he ignored it...for now. Instead, he was drawn to his hand, fascinated by the speed of its healing. He watched with silent awe as his bloodied knuckles healed almost before his eyes. The blessings of Jenova were many, and this was only one of her miracles. Soon to be beheld by the entire world.

The same, terrifying smile twisted across his haggard face, his eyes shifting to the crumpled heap that was the boy. Moments ago, he was covered in bruises; his nose and lip bleeding like a stuck pig. Now the flesh was as pristine as polished alabaster, the only thing that hinted at his injury were the bloodstains on his ragged hand-me-down clothes. Given to him by sympathetic nurses. How easily the child could sway humans to emotions just by the fact of his youth. Were they too blind and stupid to know that this was no child? They had to be. His tears were nothing more than pretense or at least they should have been. He'd healed over, damn it all. What did he have to cry about? It angered him, the strangled little sobs and whimpers he made, like a whipped dog. Why was he so weak? They'd contaminated him...tainted his perfect creation. Worthless...The man's eyes darkened and he lazily raised his leg and watched detachedly as he kicked the child solidly in the stomach. The boy sucked in air, immediately ceasing his incessant puling. He gritted his teeth, delicate features contorted in pain and though he made no sound, his tears still trailed down his face.

"Why are you crying, boy?" the man asked, his voice full of contempt, taking his time pronouncing that last word with sharp, rounded loathing.

The boy didn't answer, looking up at him through his long silver bangs--just trying to keep the hate and despair from his face. His entire body shook with it. Large jade eyes glowed brightly in the dark, still wet with tears. For only five years old, this child had been witness to such unrelenting cruelty. Cruelty that would have broken most grown men, yet, unbelievably, he persevered. Somehow holding onto a dwindling sliver of hope that the man who'd been in charge of him a year before would come back.

That man had shown him that life wasn't always pain. He knew that it wasn't supposed to be this way. That the beatings he now got almost daily were wrong. The injustice of it, the damned plain unfairness of it, festered inside him. Gast had _never_ treated him like this. He was a kind, gentle man. A genius. Whenever he'd perform a procedure on him, Gast would tell him exactly what he was doing and if it'd hurt. He'd give him pain relievers; hold his hand when it hurt the most. Gast taught him things, read him stories, and played with him. He gave him candy and toys and books--things that had been stolen away from him now. Gast had allowed him to play with other children. Even going so far as to arrange special outings, where he'd go to Gast's house and visit with his wife and baby daughter. He liked those times best of all. He had treated him like any normal person. But Gast had left and with him went any sense of normalcy. The comfortable routines of the last five years had been replaced by relentless agony. The days were long and torturous, constantly reminded that he was far from normal. He'd always known he was different. Now it was just so much clearer than it had been before. Gast and his other caretakers had tried to be careful to hide that fact from him, but he'd known from all the time he'd spent with other children.

Normal children didn't live in a tiny cell in the Research and Development department of Shinra Inc.'s laboratories. Normal children didn't have gray hair. Normal children had parents. He'd learned all of this from his once daily visits to Shinra's daycare center. Gast had let him go there because he wanted the boy to be socialized. He felt the boy needed experience with children his own age, not just the scientists, doctors and research assistants he was familiar with. Even though he was the company's greatest experiment, he was still a child, after all.

The man who stood over him had disagreed. He hated that man. That man said he was better than everyone else but he was a liar. Because in the same sentence were words that made him feel less than human, like nothing more than a number--a thing to be used--a tool--a weapon. Made him feel like one of the numbered dogs or chimpanzees they'd experiment on. He had once felt special, loved and cared for. That had evaporated, and what was left was a lingering hatred for himself, this man and all those who allowed this to happen. Who stood by and made him wonder if it was somehow his fault.

Gast had left and gone away and left this man in charge. This man he hated and feared more than anything. The boy rarely said his name but when he did, it was with venomous loathing. _Why did he leave_? _Was it my fault_? _Did I make him go away because I'm not_...he let the thought hang as more tears escaped his eyes.

The man smirked, amused by the traitorous emotions that flickered across the child's face. "What are you thinking about, boy?"

"Where did Gast go?" The boy asked him quietly, looking up at him--eyes steely with determination.

"Always that question. You hope he'll come back for you?"

The boy said nothing but if looks could kill, than surely the man that stood before him would have been eviscerated.

"And what do I get if I answer you? Hmmmm?" the man queried, expectant.

"Where did Gast go?" The boy said again, his voice strangely commanding. Still sounding young and untested but with a demand in it that was not meant to be disobeyed.

The man scoffed, noticing the tension in the child's shoulders but he knew better than to push him too far. He was still young but incredibly strong for his age. The gift and miracle that was Jenova coursed through his veins as well. The man tired of seeing hope in the boy's eyes. Tired of seeing his love for that fool Gast and wished to stop his endless questioning. He had hoped to use it as a trump card further down the road, but he supposed now was as good a time any to rid the boy of his human attachments.

"He's dead." The man replied, his eyes deadening, voice callously cold.

"Liar."

The man smiled quietly, not looking at the boy, "...Wish in one hand, boy. Crap in the other.... and see which one piles up first. Gast is dead and in the ground. He never cared for you. He left you here to rot.... why would he come for you? You're not his family. You might as well accept the fact that humans, at heart, are selfish creatures. You are above them...Why you insist on holding on to the memory of such a weak, fool like Gast, I'll never kn--"

"SHUT UP!" The boy cried, "You're a liar and a monster. Gast isn't like that. You're wrong...."

"Am I?" the man said, voice deathly cold, "You hate me, don't you?"

The boy refrained from answering again, but his eyes glittered with it. He still held up that hope that Gast was alive. Sooner or later he'd break him, but that time was a long way off. So determined...the man thought dully and momentarily he saw another face superimposed over the child's. In the boy's face he saw the Turk that was his father. The Turk that fucked his whoring wife. The Turk that was ever defiant, right up until the end. The boy had the same defiant streak in him and more than likely would fight just as hard as his father had. To fight for her. _Lucrecia_. He loved her, he really did, even though that love had twisted underneath his collapsing sanity...he had always loved her. Had done what he had to because he loved her. Now she was gone. Another regret in an endless string of regrets, the list was so long now, he felt it could wrap around the world twice over. The boy was on that list...He could see her in him too. His large jade eyes were almost the exact shape and color of his late wife's. Just as lovely, as pale and delicate. Just as haunted as hers...filled with tremors of emotion. So human.

He hated the boy, for everything he was and everything he wasn't. But mostly, he hated him because he wasn't his. Biologically and scientifically. Neither the genes nor the research were his, and everyday the resentment squirmed inside him...begged for an outlet. This child became his de facto punching bag. He was a symbol for all of his personal and professional failures. A bloody great neon sign that pointed to all his inadequacies, highlighting the fact that he was nothing but a waste of carbon and water. A pile of human tripe, he was nothing more than a useless mixture of all the wrong parts of humanity. All his life he'd been running, searching, trying to be a great man. To live down his own tortured childhood, to prove his bastard father wrong. To live up to some insanely inhuman standard of perfection, near god status. Looking for that definable triumph that he could hold over all who doubted him, and say--You were wrong about Yasuo Hojo. You were so very, very wrong. But all he ever got was that he wasn't good enough. A substandard scientist, a substandard human being. He even went so far as to change who and what he was. To alter himself, make himself better. Before this boy, he had channeled Jenova. Now she'd chosen this boy to be her vessel. Carving out bits of his mind, making herself a nice little home to wait for the day when she'd wake. Even as an avatar for her, he was inadequate. This bastard child. He seethed. Torn between wanting the boy dead, and the knowledge that he was needed alive if the project were to succeed. The child was better than human, better than him. Better than the Turk or even Gast, who the boy loved like a father.

Is this why he'd suffered? This vapid, human child--a worthless, gibbering human child. Jenova would make him a god and he cried because he missed Gast. What did he have to cry about? Ungrateful brat. His father had visited more horrifying vengeance on him for lesser crimes than crying. And his mind pitched itself away into those dark memories. Visions of his father assaulted him as he berated him for his love of reading and the sciences. "_What's wrong wit you, boy? Why cain't you play ball like a normal kid? What the fuck did I do to deserve a little fruit like you?_" That damned rasping echo of his father's voice haunted him, followed him wherever he went. No matter how far he fled, it was always right behind him. He looked down at the boy and for a moment he saw himself as a child. Cowering in a corner as his father brutalized him. That same look on his face. Fear and loathing. The hopeless trails of tears that dried on his cheeks, leaving a path that the gods could tread if they had dared to. But the gods don't care about one lonely little boy, not enough to swoop down and stop the horrors visited upon innocence. No matter how hard he prayed for them to.

And for a moment the alien presence that gripped his mind and bent him to her purpose, smothering his emotions, receded. It was she who had drove him, that had dredged up those memories and he'd heeded her call to numb himself to those memories. In the absence on non-feeling, pity well up within him. Silver hair melded and turned inky black, dark brown replaced cool jade and for a moment he had to rub his eyes. Because he actually saw himself on the floor, the boy was him. And he was...he let the thought peter out because to admit the horrifying truth was too much for what was left of a once promising mind. This child was like what he'd been before...pathetic....weak...emotional. Human. The boy had suffered to become more and he'd added to it. And inside, the human he once was wept because he'd become what he'd hated. _Father_...came the whisper. This boy, his life would be as ruinous and painful as his own. And instead of shielding him, as Gast had, he'd viciously beaten reality into him. What kind of man would this child become now?

His hair was a stark gray, almost white. When he was born it had been as midnight black as the Turk's had been. Hojo remembered how Lucrecia had smiled when the doctor had held him up. _Such dark hair_, she'd whispered. He shut his eyes against the painful memory, the sheer agony of it nearly reducing him to tears. In the child's short life, his hair had gone almost completely white from the stresses continually put on his body. Both he and Gast had hoped it was a temporary side effect of the mako treatments. That sooner or later his hair color would return to normal but it didn't. If anything, it got paler each day. Very little black remained. It was odd to see a child of five with definite salt and pepper hair. Even odder were his luminous eyes, bright with more than just the obscene amounts of mako that had been injected into him. He was intelligent beyond his years, frighteningly so. Hojo knew that the boy was smarter than he let on. The child played the part of innocence so well...but he was better than that.

What was the point in coddling him, really? Why let the boy think he was normal? He wasn't a child. He wasn't even human. He was better. _He is a puppet_.... _he has no emotion and cannot feel_.... The sibilant whisper of the alien curled around his mind like a foul wind and the shred of humanity that was left in him shuffled back into its corner. Not human. Better.

But the tears in the boy's eyes betrayed that thought. The way his small body shook. The boy, no matter how altered, was still human. Human? Human. It was confirmed. Something had to be done. All the effort they'd put into him. The time. The sacrifices. _I loved her and she betrayed me_..._I had to_... _you didn't have to_..._I love_..._I love_. He'd killed his wife for this child...this pathetic excuse for a god. This wretch. Damned, feeble useless human..._someone, help me_. He was better! He should be better! His treatments had worked; he'd seen the results and no amount of Gast's superior disapproving could change that. This child was better! He'd be faster and stronger and smarter than any man alive and damn it all, why didn't he act like it?! He should be an implacable rock! A fucking paragon! Not subject to stupid human weakness. _Like you are_..._like she was_.... And again the boy's face fell away and his face appeared before him like some kind of absurd ghost and how he hated himself. How he hated the boy he was and the man he'd become. Why wasn't he good enough? What was wrong with him? And in this furious storm of emotions, Hojo snapped.

All his childhood beatings washed over him as he lashed out at the boy. Slapping his face until his hand numbed. And with every real slap came the remembrance of his own tortured childhood. The blows he'd taken in the past filtered through him and were released to infect a new victim. For violence is as vicious and unrelenting as any virus. All of it poured out of him and yet the release he sought never came, there was no satisfaction to be had. Not matter how hard he beat the boy, it never relieved his own pain despite his hope that it might. Right behind his eyes lurked those memories, ready to reach out and grab. The times he'd have to watch mutely as his father groped and molested his sisters. He'd stare ahead and pretend not to see because if he saw, then his father would turn on him. There was many a guilty time that he'd thanked the gods that he wasn't a girl and that his father didn't have a predilection for boys. How dirty he felt for being glad he was only ever beaten and the stupid helplessness that came behind it, because there was nothing he could do to help. "_Yeah, you like to watch. Don't you, you little faggot_..." Shutting his eyes against his father's voice, tears peaked out from his eyes. His mother was screaming--her terrified sobs pierced his heart so much, that he'd try to blot out with his pillow. Stuffing it in his ears as his father beat her when she dared to object. When she stood up for them. The broken arms. The swollen eyes. _Get me my belt, boy. You're gonna get a whuppin_..._Are you crying? I'll give you_...

"....Something to cry about!" he spat the words of his father out, his fury tapering off by the steady numbing from that voice in the back of his head.

The boy huddled before him whimpered, his tiny chest hitching as he sobbed softly. Still somewhat entrapped in memory, Hojo didn't stop beating him until his arm was too tired and sore to move. Until the boy stopped crying all together, going limp and passive. In the silence, Hojo stared down at the boy. Stared down at a wraith that was and was not his own reflection and when he looked in the mirror on the boy's door, he saw his father's face and not his own. And deep inside, the good man that he tried and failed to be wept. The only evidence of his sorrow was a solitary tear. It traveled down his cheek, dripping soundlessly to the floor. Having traveled a path less traveled. A path that had once been worn with emotion and was now devoid. A path that the boy he'd just broke would soon walk. The cycle of abuse turned and another life was ruined. And when it turned again, the whole world would weep.

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THIS DEVICE WAS STOLEN FROM ARDWYNNA! 

**Approx. Long Hand Writing time**: 30 minutes

**Typing time**: 2hrs. 30 minutes

**Music**: In Your Eyes--Peter Gabriel

**Feet**: Asleep!

**Dedication**: Lucrecia LeVrai

**Experiment**: FAILED! (I love you Excel Saga!)


	2. Quiet Lives FF8

_**Little Star, Quiet Lives**_

**_Final Fantasy 8_**

**_Genre--Complete and total mush_**

_Never forget how to dream._

_Butterfly._

_Never forget where you come from. _

_From love._

_--Madonna/Rick Nowels_

"Congratulations! It's a girl...." the nurse grinned, holding the baby up for the new mother to see. Julia's eyes searched blearily, lighting on the tiny pink form held in front of her. She reached out her hand, a weak smile on her tired face.

"Can I hold her?"

"In a moment..... She needs to be cleaned and given a check up. Then she's all yours...."

The nurse cradled the infant in her arms, turning around to a small table surrounded by the attending doctors and nurses. Julia could hear the baby give a cry as they cleaned her up. Clearing her tiny nostrils and ears, washing off the afterbirth, to make her ready for her mother and the world. The wailing soon stopped and Julia felt she could close her eyes for just one moment. The doctors would be gentle, Julia trusted them to do their jobs. A sense of peace enveloped the new mother, perhaps it was the joy of being able to give life. _Or maybe it's the drugs_.....she smiled softly, hearing the nurses come closer. She opened her eyes as her daughter was brought to her, wrapped in a light pink flannel blanket. _She's so tiny_.....The nurse handed the child over, letting the mother gently encircle it with her own arms. Her daughter. She was holding her daughter. Julia looked in at the little being that peered from out of the blanket. Big wide blue eyes, little tiny fists that curled so easily around her own finger.

"Hey you...." Julia whispered softly, gently stroking her daughters face.

The baby cooed, looking up at Julia lazily with eyes wide and full of wonder. Both sat there quietly regarding each other, mother and daughter. What the future held seemed of no consequence, it was this moment that mattered and nothing else. Julia pulled the blanket down so she could see better. A soft layer of dark hair covered the baby's head. Julia smoothed it over, her heart beating fast and slow. There was a part of her that couldn't believe this tiny little thing was hers, that the love between husband and wife could produce something so perfect and alive. The baby stirred, making little grunts and fussy noises that signaled discomfort of some kind. Julia rocked the baby back and forth, singing quietly to her.

A shuffle came from across the room that made Julia look up suddenly. Her husband stood there, looking around nervously as if he expected to be kicked out at any moment. He looked so much like a little boy that it made Julia giggle. So unlike the professional man she had known and still loved.

"Come here and say hello to your daughter.....silly...."

Caraway gave her a goofy smile, slowly walking over to the bed. He felt as if he'd interrupted an important moment between his girls. Though it didn't seem that Julia minded, she beamed at him as she held his daughter in her arms. He sat down next to his wife, and looked down at the tiny girl wrapped in all that fabric. He was nervous.....what new father wasn't?

The labor had been long and painful. Ten full hours of it, and there were times when both of them felt like they couldn't go on. She was delirious with pain and it became obvious that there were problems with the birth. X-rays had been ordered and all manner of tests had been given. It pained him to watch his beloved in such agony. There was nothing he could do but hold her hand, and even that wasn't enough. The doctors were worried as more time went on, though they tried not to show it. Not much anyone could hide from a military man like himself, he was trained to observe. The tests came back, the baby had come later than expected and Julia's birth canal was too small. They'd have to do a caesarean. That was at six o'clock in the morning.....They told him they'd have to wait at least six hours before they could go to surgery.....to make sure her stomach was empty.

By this time both his mother and hers had arrived, giving him time to rest a little. They gave Julia ice chips to suck on, and drugs to relax her and dull the pain. Her eyes fluttered as the pain killers took affect and eventually she closed them, falling into a light sleep. He'd gone out for a little while, coming back with breakfast for everyone except poor Julia. She complained groggily.

At ten to twelve they prepped her for surgery, covering her short dark hair with a hair net, pressing IV tubes into her arm....and wheeling her out into the corridor to take her to the operating room. She waved weakly as she left, and he waved back, a nervous smile on his face. They weren't allowing anyone into the O.R. with her, and it tore him up inside. All he could do was sit in the waiting room, unable to read or even watch television. He just stared into empty space, praying that his wife and his child would be alright. The doctors list of what ifs echoing in his head. They finally called him....he nearly fell off his chair. Now here he was, looking into the face of his first born. His little girl. She was so beautiful. He held out a finger and she grabbed it, her hand looked miniscule in comparison with his. How was a blundering oaf like himself supposed to take care of something so fragile? The bundle with blue eyes only gazed at him, as if to say, it's okay Dad....you'll do alright. He hoped that he would.

"Do you want to hold her?"

"......I'm afraid I'll drop her......"

Julia rolled her eyes, laughing gently, "Don't be silly, of course you won't! Here....."

She gave the baby to him, gracefully transferring the infant into his arms. He looked hopelessly confused and held her more like an antique vase than a child. This made Julia laugh even harder, smiling brightly as she showed her husband what to do. The baby cried in protest as she was moved around, quieting once he'd positioned her comfortably in his arms. The tiny family settled in, that strange sense of peace that had previously overlapped the room returning. The baby yawned; it had been a long day for all. Both parents smiled, looking from each other and then back to the face of their child. Enjoying the moment, watching their daughter do any number of simple actions. Glad that she was finally here, and theirs.

"What should we call her?" He asked, petting his daughter's fine hair just as Julia had done earlier.

"Rinoa......" She answered firmly, looking at her husband for confirmation.

He thought for a moment, taking more time than necessary to tease his wife, "Well.....I don't know......I'm not sure I like Rinoa. It's kind of unusual."

"Yes, I want our daughter to be unique."

"What about Katy?"

"No....she doesn't look like a Katy to me."

"We could call her Beatrix...."

"Beatrix? I don't think so." Julia's eyes widened, smiling a little drunkenly as she was still under the affects of the drugs they'd given her.

"Why not?"

"Sounds like a grandma name to me...either that or some kind of bizarre snack food."

He scowled at her in jest, "Hey! I resent that! My grandma's name was Beatrix!"

"No, it isn't." Julia replied, "I'm not that drugged up..."

Caraway grinned, "Had you for a moment." She gave him a dubious look, one eyebrow lifting subtly, "Seriously. Beatrix would be a great name."

"The stern and calculating one eyed general from Tantalus Tales? Again, I don't think so."

"Why not?!" he whined, "She's a strong female role model."

"With only one eye. Besides. Rinoa was my grandma's name."

"Heeeeey." Caraway said, his eyes narrowing with humor, "No fair. You said Beatrix was a grandma name and it isn't. Rinoa is an ACTUAL grandma name..."

"Yes, and it's elegant and unusual and my grandma was an ACTUAL strong female role model, rather than a made up one. Plus it has sentimental value and that trumps literary references."

"Oh, fine. You win." he grumbled, his eyes sparkling as he looked deeply into his wife's dark eyes.

"You bet your ass I do."

"Watch your language, hon. We have a baby now."

At this, Julia blushed a deep crimson, "How 'bout a compromise? Her middle name can be Beatrice. Because Beatrix just sounds too close to snack crackers for my liking."

"Snack crackers....you're obsessed." he replied, a soft smile on his face as the baby cooed in his arms. "Rinoa Beatrice Caraway. No, I don't like that."

"Told you Beatrice was too Grandma."

"Hush, you. Do we have to give her a middle name. I kinda like just Rinoa Caraway myself."

Julia shrugged, "I suppose not. Rinoa Caraway. Has kind of a ring to it."

"Yeah, welcome to the world Rinny. Mommy and Daddy love you." He said to the baby, brushing his finger over her soft cheek.

Julia stifled a laugh at the ridiculously high voice her husband was making. It was cute and at the same time inescapably goofy. She wondered what his hardened troops would think if they heard that voice come out of his mouth. Unable to hold it in, she giggled, which soon turned into a torrent of laughter. Caraway looked up at his wife with a wide-eyed smile, turning back to gaze at his daughter.

"Ut-oh. I think Mommy just went insane."

The baby scrunched up her face in response, letting out another long yawn. Julia calmed herself down long enough to relate her thoughts to her husband, who had a good-natured laugh over it. The baby fell asleep peacefully in his arms. The future flung out in front of her but for right now, there was only this moment. The new family basking in the glow of the afternoon sun, celebrating a new life full of possibilities, the room ringing with laughter and love as more family members were let in. Interrupting the stillness of the afternoon and all that remained of that moment, were the secret smiles between wife and husband, and the contented sigh of their newborn child.

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I stole this device shamelessly from Ardwynna!!

**Long Hand:** Around an hour

**Typing**: About two, two and a half hours.

**Music**: Ray of Light (the album)--Madonna

**Feet:** Tingly, but still awake.

**Dedication**: To my Dad

**Experiment:** FAILED!


	3. Prayers For Rain FF7

**Prayers For Rain**

**Final Fantasy 7**

**Genre--Day in the Life Drama**

_You may say I'm a dreamer_

_But I'm not the only one_

_I hope someday you'll join us_

_And the world will live as one_

_--John Lennon, Imagine_

Rain poured from the sky in vast, hungry waves. Large wet drops fed the ground and wetted it till it could soak up no more. It reminded her of the flood that so many religious texts spoke of, and she smiled sadly, noting how the plants seemed to turn their leaves up to meet it. Perhaps it wasn't so bad as all that. How much greener the world look during a rainstorm, it almost fooled her into thinking that the planet wasn't dying.

The soft sound of the rain rattling against the roof filled the small living space with a constant, soothing rhythm. It pattered against the windows, leaving long trails that were almost like tears. Maybe the planet was crying. Sometimes she felt like weeping with it but not today.

Ifalna sat in the living room knitting and watching the rain. It was a blessedly quiet Saturday afternoon, with nothing to do. Again, she smiled but this time happily, gazing down at her now two-year old daughter, Aeris. She lay sprawled out on the carpet, drawing on a large sheet of paper with their weekend visitor, humming contentedly. For the last year and a half, Gast had allowed the young boy to spend his weekends at their home. It was Ifalna who'd convinced him of the importance of human contact for the boy, who was too often regarded as a research specimen rather than a human child. Despite the taint within him and her fear of it, he was still a little boy and Ifalna pitied him for the circumstances he'd been born into. The boy didn't ask for this. Her ancestors could howl at her and moralize all they wanted, but he was an innocent in all this. A child.

As if he knew she was thinking of him, the silver haired boy looked up and regarded her with wide jade eyes. She gave him a warm smile, which he returned shyly before turning back to his work. He was laying on the floor next to her daughter, coloring the other half of the large sheet of paper. They seemed to be drawing some kind of forest scene. Large pink trees filled the page; Ifalna guessed they were drawing a cherry orchard. They hadn't said a word the entire morning and she wondered how they had both decided to draw the same thing. It was eerie but sometimes she swore that their minds worked together. As if one could read the other's intentions, a kind of odd telepathy existed between the two of them. She realized the idea was ridiculous. Cetra could only communicate that way with one of their own and the boy was most certainly no cetra.

Still, the cooperation she observed in their play was uncanny. She had never seen two children play together with so few problems. They never fought, never once argued as normal children did. True, they weren't exactly normal but children, no matter the heritage, were still children and like most children, should have been prone to occasional bickering and disagreements. Especially considering the age group. Aeris being two could be willful and stubborn, and Sephiroth at age five should have tended to be bossy and commanding. They defied all the books she'd read about children. Sitting together, him drawing one side of the picture, her drawing the other. And though their skills weren't matched, they were obviously drawing the same thing, him with the more sure hand of an older child and her with the shaky strokes of a youth just out of infancy.

She had been afraid at first to allow the child tainted with the crisis near her daughter. And then she met him; it was hard to hold onto fear when the boy hid behind her husband the entire time. It was a good twenty minutes before he was brave enough to peek from behind his legs to say a quick hello. Sephiroth was a sweet child, extremely shy and very gentle. It had taken a long time but he'd finally warmed up to her. Trust didn't seem to come quickly for the boy and she understood more than he knew. Ifalna was patient and he slowly came out of his shell day by day. Though when it came to physical contact he was still wary. There were times when she wanted to give him a hug or an affectionate pat and he'd nearly jump out of his skin. She had to accept that he would only allow himself to be touched when he wanted it and that offering affection only made him uncomfortable. So she contented herself to wait until he asked for it, and he did, eventually. These rules didn't seem to apply to Aeris, the only one he'd allow to show him affection without his explicit permission. And she was a very affectionate child. Prone to spontaneous hugs and kisses, she was the kind of child who loved to be held. Sephiroth's almost polar opposite. Yet somehow, they got along.

The little boy would shy away if she attempted to hug him but he seemed to welcome it when Aeris did the same. His oddest habit and one that amused her to no end, was the way he'd kiss her daughter goodnight. He'd kiss his fingers and then press them to the back of her neck, just over the rose wine birthmark at the edge of her hairline. When asked about it, he simply shrugged and explained that she had a kitty on her neck, as if that was all the clarification anyone needed. Indeed, the birthmark did sort of resemble a cat but why he kissed it like it was something that deserved the utmost reverence, she'd never know. In a way, she enjoyed the mystery more.

Aeris absolutely adored the boy and spent the majority of the week talking about what they'd do when Sephiroth came or asking anxiously how long it'd be. On Friday evenings, when Gast would arrive home, Aeris would be a bundle of nerves. Dancing around the house excitedly, when not peering out the window with anticipation waiting for the car's lights to appear in the driveway. And the minute the door opened, she'd brush past her father and embrace the boy as he came in the door. It was quite cute to watch her, jumping up and down and jabbering in her child's voice to the older boy. She'd pull him along, into the playroom, telling him about everything she did that week as best she could with her limited vocabulary. And he would listen quietly, a rare smile on his face as he let her lead him. Aeris had given him his nickname. Calling him Seph because his full name was too hard for her young palate to form.

"Missus Gast?"

Ifalna looked up from her knitting to regard the small voice that interrupted her thoughts, "What can I do for you, sweetie?"

"I think it's time for Aeris's nap." He replied, his high voice was soft and unusually self-possessed for a five-year old child.

Sure enough, when Ifalna glanced at her daughter, she was yawning widely. Her head bobbed up and down as she struggled to stay awake. Ifalna set down her knitting, capping the ends of the needles so the sweater she was making wouldn't unravel. She went to her daughter, bending down and picking her up gently. The little girl tried to struggled in vain before settling into her mother's embrace. Yawning again, she nestled into Ifalna's neck, absently tugging on one of her curled pigtails.

"I 'on't wan go 'leep, ma." She whined fussily, still playing with her hair.

She rubbed the little girl's back, "Of course not, Munkin. But it's naptime."

"Mun naht 'leepy."

"Yes you are, silly girl."

"Nunt-uh."

Ifalna chuckled, letting the little girl fuss a bit until she was too tired to complain. Aeris had never been the kind of kid who argued too hard or long when tired. Soon she was quiet, her emerald eyes closed in light sleep as Ifalna shuffled down the hallway to her room. Smiling serenely, she watched Sephiroth rush ahead of her, entering the first door on the left, Aeris's room. Ifalna entered shortly afterward, he'd already pulled down the covers on her small bed, looking up at her expectantly as he waited.

"Missus Gast, may I please tuck her in?"

She looked down at him kindly as she set Aeris down in bed, "Of course, you may." She paused, "You know, you don't have to call me Mrs. Gast if you don't want to. I'm just Ifalna."

"I know. I'm sorry...Miss....I mean, Ifalna."

She laughed then, kneeling down to look at him in the eyes, "Call me what you want, Seph. This isn't the lab, okay?"

He nodded and she took a chance, ruffling his hair before standing up again. The boy didn't seem to mind this time, accepting the gesture without complaint. Sephiroth wasn't concerned with her; his attention was solely on Aeris. She was half-asleep, her eyelids opening and closing drowsily as she gazed at him. The little girl started to make a fuss again, not wanting her friend to leave so soon. Upset that he got to stay up, while she had to sleep and she fought her tiredness to stay awake. He patted her hand to console her and pulled the covers over her shoulder. As if to say, it's okay to go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake, completing the ritual with his usual devotion. Ifalna watched him carefully, noting how he tenderly stroked her hair, giving her comfort he so infrequently received and gazing at her with a little half smile. How could a child so mistreated be capable of such great affection? She could only guess but she was grateful to see actual humanity in man and prayed that this boy would be able to keep that gentleness and carry it over to adulthood.

"Come on, Seph. We should let her sleep."

He grunted as a reply, glancing at her, his face an expressionless mask. Walking calmly out the door, not waiting for her to follow. The boy was a mass of contradictions sometimes. Going from hot to cold in a matter of seconds. She supposed he just didn't want to leave and that explained the change in demeanor enough. Though it was hard to deal with the mood swings, as subtle as they were. She walked back into the living room, finding him picking up the crayons and paper they'd laid out earlier without having to ask him. There was also the unnatural maturity she had to contend with. She felt that she was often dealing with a child much older than just five when with him. Then he'd betray his actual age, and so it was hard finding a single way to treat him. Not really a child, not really an adult but somewhere in between. She sat down on the couch and picked up her knitting, pulling off the covers to begin work again. Shortly thereafter, the boy was finished with his task and sat down next to her, his slight weight shifting the cushions a bit. He looked at her inquisitively; his eyes were sharp and bright. This was the side to him she never had a problem with. The one that asked so many questions, wanting to know everything about the world and then some.

"What're you making?"

"A sweater...for you actually."

"For me?" his voice squeaked a bit in surprise.

"Mmmhmm." Ifalna smiled bemusedly.

She was curious; normally he never started a conversation. In the two years she'd known the boy, he rarely talked and always waited for someone else to begin speaking before he said a word. The only time he would ever speak voluntarily was when it was necessary. He wanted something.

"Why?"

"Because. I think you could use one. Gets cold in the lab."

He blinked, clearly baffled by what she said but unwilling to question her.

"Would you mind if I measured it against you? I'd like to see if it'll fit..."

"Okay." He said slowly, jumping off the couch and shuffling over to her, "What do I do?"

"Just stand there." She replied, holding up the knitted cloth to his chest. Stretching it one way and then the other before she was satisfied. "Alright, all done."

Ifalna smoothed the cloth before positioning the needles before she began knitting again. Now, he was even more curious, crawling up next to her he watched her like a hawk. His eyes trained on her needles as they clacked together, glinting in the light like some bright beacon that sailors used to communicate at night. Her skilled hands guiding the implements as she looped and hooked yarn over them, each time making the cloth that much longer. Sephiroth looked from it to her, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Can I touch it?"

"Of course."

She stopped working and held out the weave welcomingly. He reached out tentatively and touched it. Smiling slightly as he moved the fabric between his fingers.

"It's soft!"

He looked up at her with a wide grin, wonder evident in his features. She almost laughed at his innocent admission but held it back. No sense in making him feel bad or stupid for being surprised at something so simple. His frame of reference for such things was rather limited. All of the clothes Shinra provided for the boy were simple cotton medical scrubs. He hadn't any real clothes. Probably had never seen a sweater made for someone his size until now. Ifalna had taken it upon herself to properly clothe the boy. The long sleeved sweat shirt and jeans he wore now were her doing.

"....Yes, it is soft. Wouldn't be very comfortable to wear otherwise."

"Yeah...." He agreed, stopping to glance at her with a look of worry, "Nobody's ever made something for me...."

He was asking if it was okay that she was doing this, as if he didn't deserve gifts or kindness because of what he was. She could see it in his eyes. Hojo disapproved of their treatment of him but Ifalna did not care.

"Another reason why I'm making it...just for you..."

Sephiroth stared out into space for a moment, thinking, trying to comprehend her kindness. She began to hum quietly and the noise brought his attention back to her. Ifalna smiled warmly at him, telling him with her eyes that it was alright. There was nothing to worry about. She wouldn't make something for him if he didn't deserve it. Sephiroth reluctantly smiled back at her, still taken aback as he was unused to such compassion from others. He fidgeted for a moment, continuing to watch her knit and on the verge of saying whatever it was he had to say. It seemed he was having trouble broaching the subject. Ifalna solved this problem for him.

"So, what would you like to do today?"

He didn't react with surprise or excitement. Not even relief. Coolly accepting her smooth transition without a word.

"May I please look at those art books again?"

"That you may." She said cheerily, setting down her knitting and getting up from off the couch. Walking over to the large bookcases that framed either side of their wide sliding glass door in the living room. "Which one did you want to look at?"

"Ho-h-hoku...Hokusai..." He stuttered, having a bit of difficulty pronouncing the name.

"Right."

She fumbled around, her fingers going over the spines, as she looked for the name in question. Finding it, she pulled out the now familiar tome in its place on the very top shelf. Its spine was creased from wear and tear, the jacket was torn and dirtied and the pages had gone soft at the edges. It was a book that was dearly loved before the boy came and with his arrival, it became more so. He seemed to favor this book of rare prints by the famous Wutanese artist, Shiro Hokusai. The boy looked at this one volume almost every time he came here. Obviously admiring the simplicity of the works inside as well as their bright shapes and vivid colors. He could sometimes be seen tracing them with his fingers. On occasion, she had encouraged him to copy the drawings he liked the best. There were several of these drawings up on her refrigerator alongside her daughter's. Clutching the book on tiptoe, she brought it down for him, handing the thick book to the boy. Just as her fingers slipped from the cover, he dropped it, wincing and holding his right arm in his left hand.

"S-sorry." he said softly, reaching down to retrieve the book.

Ifalna was quicker, picking it up and setting it down on the couch.

"No, it's okay, hon." She bit her lip before holding out her hand, "May I see your arm?"

He shook his head, pulling his arm closer to his chest and cradling it with his other hand.

"....Is it hurt?" She asked, knowing the question was rhetorical. He just stared at her, wide eyed and frightened. "If it is....I'd like to help, if you'd let me."

Sephiroth continued to gaze at her warily, his eyes reflecting uncertainty.

"It's all right, sweetheart. I promise, I won't hurt you..." She said, her tone placatory as she tried her very best to radiate trustworthiness.

The boy looked at her for a beat and then at the sweater she was making him, as if it was an important component in his consideration of her offer. He stood there for a good ten minutes, staring blankly at the bundle of yarn on the couch. She watched him patiently, wanting so much to help the boy but forcing herself to wait until he asked for it. It was frustrating to not be able to reach out to him and watch him stand there in obvious pain. His eyes suddenly unglazed and he turned to regard Ifalna. The look on his face was that of intense concentration and his gaze was piercing, looking at her like he was trying to gaze into her soul. Those eyes were calculating what he found in hers, weighing the risk of trusting her against his dislike of showing weakness.

Slowly, he held out his right arm with a timid shake, moving closer to her with small steps. He looked at her through his bangs, which fell like silver rain over his face. His eyes poking out behind them, large and filled with fear. Gently, Ifalna took his hand and pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Several long, red welts ran up and down his small arm and she almost gasped. Licking her lips, she held back the horror she felt and smiled as warmly as she could. The last thing she wanted to do was frighten the boy further. This was the first time he'd allowed her to even see his mysterious injuries. She'd noted before when he'd come home limping or with cuts, but he never let her help him...until now.

It wasn't often she'd use her power, preferring to keep her true nature a secret. Her husband knew, but no one else. She risked her safety and that of her child in doing this, but she couldn't stand to see the boy suffer any longer. And there was little for her to fear, she knew she could trust the boy to keep her secret as he had just as many as she. Her lids hung heavy as she called out to the planet, holding her hand over his battered arm. Greenish tendrils of light twisted up from the floor, tinting the room the color of life itself. As green and growing as the plants outside. The light wrapped around his arm and the red welts disappeared wherever it touched. The boy watched in wonder, his expression changing from animal fear to wonder. Life swirled in the older woman's eyes, pulsing with the effort of her healing, repairing the damaged flesh with ease. She blinked languidly and as suddenly as the spell began, it ended. The glow in the room died down and the light returned to its rightful place, deep within the earth.

"How...how did you do that?" He queried, knowing she had no materia on her.

"It's a kind of magic." She stated simply, with a mysterious smile.

"Hojo says that you shouldn't use that word...that it's...un-sci...unsien...unscientific."

"Hojo speaks a great deal on things he has no comprehension of...He's a foolish little man and I wouldn't listen to him, if I were you."

This seemed to amuse the boy and he smiled wider and more genuinely than she'd ever seen him do before. Still holding his hand, she gave him a little squeeze, looking at him with a serious expression.

"You don't have to tell, if you don't want to...but...how did your arm get hurt?"

Reluctantly, he spoke, his words were halting and barely audible, "Sword practice....Sensei says I have to pay attention better..."

Sword practice. Sword practice for a five-year old boy. It made her blood boil. In the beginning, it had been decided that Hojo would be in charge of the boy's physical training and his medical examinations. Gast had been allowed to take over his education and the day-to-day care of the boy that Hojo disliked. Ifalna was glad for this, but at the same time, she wanted more than anything to get him away from Hojo. She'd prodded her husband on this and it had been a constant sore spot in the relationship. Hojo was a dangerous and unstable man who'd do great harm to this boy if allowed free reign over him. Bad enough that he sent a child to sword training, with an instructor that thought that pain was an adequate way to train a child in the art of war. Children shouldn't be taught war at all. This boy should be allowed to laugh and play like anyone else. He deserved his innocence; adulthood comes quickly enough to strip it away. There was no sense in accelerating the process. She would say something to Gast tonight, but for now, her attention belonged to the boy.

"How does it feel now?" She asked, knowing that no one had tried to heal it before her.

"Better." He whispered, looking down miserably.

For a long stretch of time they sat like this on the floor. Him staring down at the carpet and her, holding his hand and watching his face as the rain continued to flush the world of impurity, beating on the roof like a drum, or like the steady rhythm of their hearts.

"Why are you so nice to me?"

It was a simple question, with an easy answer and it broke her heart that he had to ask it at all.

"Because I like you...and I don't like to see someone I like in pain."

"But _why_ do you care? Nobody else does..."

Ifalna smiled enigmatically, deep green eyes twinkling like distant moonlight on a dark sea. She said nothing as everything she had to say was in her eyes and they spoke to him a simple, silent soliloquy. In those eyes was warmth, in those eyes was love and the words they spoke to him were "I care _because_ no one else does." His face went slack and the resistance he'd put up for two years was worn down to nothing. The walls broke and he fell blindly forward, into Ifalna's waiting arms. He began to sob, his face pressed into her neck, small arms embracing her so tightly they almost cut off her air supply. She ignored any unintentional discomfort and held him, pressing a soft kiss against the top of his head and smoothing his hair. How long she sat there with him, she wasn't sure. Eventually his cries tapered off and he quieted but didn't leave her arms.

Tilting her head down slightly, she saw that he was fast asleep, tears still streaking his pale cheeks. Very carefully, she stood, intending to set him down in his room. The minute she moved, he stirred and made a little grunting sound. His eyes just barely opened and he looked up at her with a soundless plea, his arms tightening around her neck. Ifalna understood completely. He didn't want to be alone. She shifted him in her arms as she stood, walking over to the reclining chair that stood in a corner of the living room, facing the view out the sliding doors.

Gracefully, she sat down and adjusted the seat and the boy in her arms until she was comfortable. They both settled in, Ifalna quietly watching the dwindling rainstorm outside as Sephiroth fell back asleep. She looked down at him, his small chest rising and falling in deep slumber. With her thumb, she wiped away the tears that had stained his face. Her gaze shifted away, looking out at her garden and wondering how long she'd be able to tend it. How long would it be before the earth was too tired to support such beauty? Absently she stroked the boy's shoulder length hair, her own eyes becoming heavy as she listened to the rain and the quiet ambience of this little piece of heaven called home. Hours later, her husband found her and the boy in the chair, both fast asleep in a completely dark and silent house.

* * *

I RUN DOWN THE STREETS BANGING POTS AND PROCLAIMING--I STOLE THIS DEVICE FROM ARDWYNNA!!

**Long Hand:** Approx. 1 hr., maybe less.

**Typing:** 2 to 3 Hours

**Music:** Imagine--John Lennon, No Woman No Cry--Bob Marley

**Feet:** A little tingly--the foot I bunged in the door is kinda wonky. I think I might lose my toenail.

**Dedication:** To my Mum--because I remember all those rainy afternoons with you and how much fun we had...thanks.

**Experiment:** FAILED!

**Author's Notes:** This was actually a bit scheduled to appear in Purgatory, but it just didn't fit. It was too long and kind of pointless, and I just couldn't find a pleasant way to fit it in without losing my mind. So I decided it'd make a cute one shot.


End file.
